


Pace is the Trick (The You Could Have Better Timing Remix)

by Red



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Old Mutant Husbands, Remix, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:39:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a half-century of nothing, one would hope Erik could manage the grace to rekindle their relationship someplace a touch more romantic than "trapped in a closet, hunted by Sentinels."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pace is the Trick (The You Could Have Better Timing Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [significantowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pace is the Trick](https://archiveofourown.org/works/859277) by [significantowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl). 



The air in here is over-warm, the space stale and musty with disuse. 

Charles had spent the first fifteen minutes in here fighting off the urge to sneeze. They were lucky to find anything at all. It’s not every janitorial closet than can fit his chair, rarer still one that can fit another person besides. 

«Do you sense anything now,» Erik sends, yet again. 

Rarer still, Charles corrects, finding a closet that could fit a wheelchair, two men, that ridiculous cape and the entirety of Erik’s ego. Charles has now spent two hours straining his powers, seeking those absent voids the Sentinels create, and it's been forty-five minutes of struggling to ignore Erik. 

The latter is not a simple task. Beyond the constant mental pestering— _quiet, Charles_ , _they must be right outside, Charles_ , _do you not sense them yet, Charles_ —there’s simply not enough space to do anything _but_ notice Erik. 

Casting out his powers as he is, it’s impossible for Charles to miss the discomfort. The ache of Erik’s back, the grating pain in the worse of his knees—Erik has crammed himself up against the back wall of the closet, and there's a forgotten mop digging into his side. 

It’s all Charles can do to keep from grinding his teeth. What, Erik would rather suffer than lean up against him? So much for all that _old friends_ trifle. He should have known to listen to Ororo in the first place. 

Yes, they needed what help they could get. Yes, Erik has proved marginally useful once or twice already. But really, this is all a bit galling. Charles focuses his powers ever outward, considering sparing some energy to block Erik entirely. 

«Well?» Erik projects.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Charles just manages to refrain from sighing. 

«I would tell you if I did,» he snaps. It's far from the first he’s said as much. 

From Erik there’s a sense of general disbelief. Charles hasn’t any doubt he’d be complaining far more vocally were it not for the threat of murderous robots. How is it that _he_ always gets stuck with Erik on these missions, Charles wonders. Is it because he convinced everyone else to let Erik join them? Is there some pairing-by-age rule of which he’s not been made aware? Granted, between his ability to sense the Sentinels early and Erik’s to crush them before the two of them are discovered, they do make a decent team. 

It’s just vexing that Erik seems to find his proximity so intolerable. Even now he’s shifting ever so slightly, putting his weight entirely on a knee that’s given him agony since the eighties, just to get away, and he's thinking _he’s concentrating on the mission, you need to as well—what he’d think of you if he knew—_

Charles' concentration falters for a half-second. Alarmed, he casts out again in a strong wave. There’s nothing there, luckily. There’s nothing he can sense at all, nothing beyond Erik, beyond that which is now all too obvious. 

Erik isn’t cramming himself up against a mop because he’s avoiding Charles. He’s doing it because—well, because he’s avoiding Charles, just not in the manner Charles was thinking. A space this close, Erik has two choices: back up into a mop and rest his weight on a knee he busted being a damn megalomaniac, or lean up against Charles' back. And the latter—with the angle they’re at, with the way they managed to shove in here—would put his groin right up against Charles' shoulder.

And Charles can tell from here.

Erik's not _uninterested_.

It would be far from their first time. But the last was nearly a half-century ago, in a far more romantic situation than “trapped in a closet, trying not to be killed by giant robots." If memory serves, most of their encounters were conducted in the back of a Buick. 

Charles' first instinct is to just go on ignoring Erik. They have a mission, and if Erik’s going to find _this_ an appropriate situation in which to rekindle a relationship that’s been decidedly extinguished since the sixties, it isn’t Charles' problem. 

He skims over the facility again, concentration doubled. Not his problem at all. 

Vague last-minute detection is about all his telepathy is good for against Sentinels, and even if it doesn’t take quite this level of focus, he does rather miss feeling useful. Avoiding Erik is just a fringe benefit, one that is only increasingly alluring as Erik continues to mask his ill-timed ardor with another insult to Charles' ability to perform basic reconnaissance. 

«Have you—» Erik starts, and now Charles truly can’t suppress his response. 

There is absolutely nothing out there, he knows. It’s not as if Erik hasn’t been on these missions with him before, not as if Erik hadn’t once seen him keep a dozen armed men quiet, let alone control _himself_. Charles sends a sharp «Erik. I will _tell you_ » and, at the same time, he sighs. 

Not loudly, not by any means. The slightest huff of air, trapped easily by the tight confines of their hideout. If there _were_ any Sentinels, perhaps it’d be enough to attract them. _If_ they were right outside the closet door, where they could damn well detect his and Erik’s presence regardless. 

All the same, it startles Erik into action. Fear and protectiveness bleed into Charles' mind as Erik surges forward, bracing one hand against the side of the closet and pressing the other over Charles' mouth. 

It ought to be completely infuriating. And it is, but if Charles is being honest… It’s not _just_ that. 

Perhaps he’s just gone too long without touch—this eternal war makes little time for affection, and not long before this he was rather on the dead side—but even through a glove, the warmth of Erik’s hand cupped over his lips is enough to spike arousal all through him. Instinctively, he grabs at Erik’s wrist. 

He doesn’t push him away. 

Erik exhales, a touch too breathy to be absolutely silent. He’s shoved himself up against Charles, now, and he tries to back up once more. But Charles holds him tightly, and Erik wouldn’t dare the commotion of a struggle. There’s no room to shift to either side, renovation no option when Erik’s so absurdly superstitious about using his powers before the moment of ambush. 

And now that Erik is on him, there’s absolutely no mistaking why he was so avoidant. Charles couldn’t have turned to see, but it’s clear enough now. He can feel Erik’s prick, already half-hard, pressed up against the back of his arm. And Erik’s apparent attempts to shift his weight have done little to help, serving only to increase that rocking pressure, making Erik’s cock thicken slowly. 

Charles works a finger in the narrow gap between glove and sleeve, stroking the delicate skin, lingering where he can feel the pound of Erik’s pulse. 

«You couldn’t think to do this thirty years ago,» he sends, exasperated. Not as if danger and tight quarters aren’t an aphrodisiac for the both of them—they'd fucked the minute Charles hauled Erik out of ocean and into a fully crewed ship—but honestly. 

With his thumb, Erik traces slowly over the curve of his cheek. Charles shivers, leaning back in his chair. His arm presses flush against Erik’s groin, and Erik shifts into it, a slow and minute thrust. 

«I was in solitary for most of that,» Erik sends, which isn’t _exactly_ true. It was probably more like a third of that time, but since Charles is a bit ambivalent toward the very concept of solitary (however much Erik may require monitoring) and Erik knows it, he tends to bring it up whenever he’s angling for sympathy. His fingers curl lightly against Charles’ face. «And a fool for the rest.»

He sends the last with such solemnity, such regret, that Charles squeezes tight at his wrist. 

«I won’t argue that,» he returns. Erik’s thoughts flare with indignation, but Charles just shifts his arm again in a slow side-to-side motion, giving Erik something to distract him. His cock twitches, nearly fully erect from so little stimulation. Perhaps it’s just the adrenaline, Charles thinks. «While your timing leaves much to be desired—»

Erik breathes out a silent laugh. «Has that ever not been the case when it comes to you?» he sends, and Charles smiles. 

«And yet I fear this will be somewhat more complex than when I _last_ had you in a janitorial closet.» 

It would be at least marginally less so in the Blackbird, Charles thinks. And god willing, maybe they'll live to see another safe house one day, maybe they’ll even have the chance to reunite properly. 

But there's no promise that they’ll survive this mission or the next. There’s no guarantee that Erik would want more than this, even if they should. 

With the way they’re positioned and with the size of this infernal closet, there’s no turning around. There’s no having Erik in the ways Charles once imagined him. No straddling the chair, Erik can’t even stand where Charles can get his throat stretched out around Erik’s gloriously huge cock. And Erik seems perfectly content to keep his right hand where it is, clamped over Charles’ mouth. Charles can only spare one hand himself, as well. He needn’t rely on his old habit of touching his temple often these days, save for when he’s distracted or truly straining his powers. 

And this, certainly, will count for both. Reluctantly, he releases Erik’s wrist and brushes his mind against Erik’s, asking permission. He’s already got a connection open between them, of course—one that’s been rarely closed since Erik joined them, as it’s substantially easier to speak mind-to-mind than to rely on radio contact—but it’s superficial. What he’s planning requires going deep enough in Erik’s mind that he’s certain Erik will reject the very idea. 

Curiosity and wariness are heavy in Erik’s mind and Charles holds back, waiting for the usual walls to fly up. But instead, Erik’s consciousness unfolds around him, easy as letting a book fall open. All of Erik’s mind, all the darkness and sharp corners and the rare constellations of bright memories—it’s all so achingly familiar that for a moment Charles is overwhelmed. It’s all he can do to keep a piece of himself separate, to keep scanning ever outward for the Sentinels. All he wants is to sink into the comfortable maze of Erik’s thoughts, and it’s only Erik’s impatient mental nudge of _you’re here now so do get on with it_ that snaps him out of it. 

«Right,» he thinks, still dizzy. «Right, so. Like this—» 

He pushes the image forward—Erik moving, taking that small half-step backward to get his cock out, to start jerking himself off while they’re tangled mind-to-mind and Charles can set the pace, Erik’s right hand still clamped tight over Charles’ mouth; and Charles with his arm no longer occupied with Erik’s pleasure, finally able to unfasten this ludicrous jacket. 

«Come now, it doesn’t look all that bad,» Erik thinks. He lets go of Charles, pushes off from the wall with his other hand, standing back once more. 

Charles thinks, not very privately, that reasonable fashion advice cannot be expected from a man in a cape. 

«Here,» he sends, ignoring Erik’s protest. «Give me your hands, there’s a love.»

With very little mental push, Erik gets his hands back where Charles can reach. Charles strips off his own gloves and then Erik’s, dropping them to his lap. Before he lets Erik up he kisses the inside of each wrist, warm and lingering, and listens to the soft hitch in Erik’s breath.

«Charles—» 

«Please,» he thinks, and Erik leaves one hand over his mouth and he’s cautious, he’s so very silent as he moves to reach for his zipper and draw himself out. 

Twining his sensations in along with Erik’s, Charles gasps against Erik’s palm. It’s been so long since they had this, and Erik’s cock is thick and hot and fully hard. He’s just got his fingers circled around the base, and Charles soaks in the feeling of having that prick in hand. Pity it’s pitch dark in here. Even if he can’t turn himself, he could have Erik watch, and he skims lightly for a memory: the last time Erik jerked off, and he gets a brief look before Erik closes the memory away. 

«You surely don’t have the attention to be fishing,» Erik sends. Charles makes a show of raising his hand to put his fingers on his temple, thinking «fine, I won’t,» though it’s obvious Erik is just embarrassed that he’d been reminiscing about the backseat of a Buick rather recently. He gives the complex and the surrounding city and countryside a nice thorough scan with Erik dragged along, just to get him to stop complaining and concentrate. 

«I don’t complain,» Erik complains, but his mind feels more contented. He firmly presses part of the image Charles sent before back at him, in lingering detail: Charles unfastening the buckles on his chest, getting the field armor open just enough to reach skin. Truth be told, there’s no just doing anything with this getup—being able to fool around with your arch nemesis in a supply closet was not high on the design specifications—but Charles obligingly unclasps and unstraps and generally undoes about a half-hour of mission prep. 

Erik, who could very well be doing this far quicker and more easily with a thought if he weren’t so bloody superstitious, smirks. «You spend twenty-nine of those bemoaning the fact you can’t go about in a waistcoat,» he sends, tightening his fingers briefly, as if _he’s_ the one who needs to remind _Charles_ to concentrate. «Now, if you’d like to continue?» 

Eventually, Charles can slide up enough of the undershirt to reach skin. This would all be far simpler, he thinks, were he wearing a suit. And though Erik is quite keen for him to share the feeling of fingers skimming up his stomach and chest, to relearn the places where Charles is most sensitive—for Charles, this is almost an afterthought. 

Through their connection, he makes Erik tighten his grip on himself again. And slowly, so slowly—inch after inch, Charles thinks deliriously—he has Erik drag his hand up in a long pull. The head of his cock is slick already, and Charles fights back a moan. Erik twists his hand, thumbing over the head, firm and relentless in the way he always liked Charles to be. 

And Charles stills him, forces him into a long stroke back down to circle the base gently. 

«You think I would let you rush this,» he sends, amused. There’s a sharp edge of near-panic in their connection, Erik struggling not to make a noise. He lets Erik have another drawn-out stroke, to swipe over the glans roughly. «After all this time?»

It’s likely only from their long association that Erik manages it, but Charles still startles, hearing Erik groan in his mind. He strokes his own fingertips hard over one nipple, the pleasure doubly intense for being shared. 

«Time—» Erik starts, his thoughts going hazy and disjointed with arousal as Charles pushes him into pumping his cock again in that same unhurried rhythm. «Charles! We—that is—» he tries again, before he can manage the last of it. 

«Time isn’t something we have in great supply.»

And, of course, it’s true. They haven't much of that left to them. There aren’t many things left to them at all. But they have this, Charles thinks, this moment here. And as long as he's able, Charles is going to draw it out. As long as he can scan for the Sentinels and hold Erik suspended here at the edge of coming, he will. Stroke by gradual stroke he drives Erik on, shares and amplifies their pleasure in an endless build, cresting higher and higher until it breaks.

When Erik comes, Charles is dragged easily along. His breath comes out hot and panting against Erik’s hand; his nails scratch roughly one last time over his chest and he’s coming, riding the sensation as Erik spills into his own hand. Despite how slow he tried to keep it, despite the awkward angle and the dragging pace he’d set—it’s been ages, yes, but Erik’s done more-or-less without for decade-long spells before. Charles had fancied he could keep Erik at edge a while longer. That they could have been at this all day. 

«All day?» Erik projects, amused and a little clumsy. In the back of his mind he’s worrying again about the Sentinels, above that he’s wondering what to do with a handful of come—as if he doesn’t have a perfectly absurd cape on which to wipe it off—but mostly, Erik’s just thinking to himself, _how I missed you, my friend_. 

With a sigh, Charles relaxes against Erik, best he can with the chair between them. Erik is already slumped against his back, at what feels to be an uncomfortable angle. There’s not even enough room for him to kneel, but he leans against Charles fully, far more at ease than Charles has seen in decades.

They could stay like this for ages, far as Charles is concerned. Erik draws his hand away from Charles’ mouth, lets his palm slide gently over his jaw and cheek. His breathing slows, soft and warm against Charles’ neck, and for all the danger in which they remain, there’s a hum of contentment running all through his mind. Charles closes his eyes, tilting his face against Erik’s touch. 

The quiet can’t last. Soon enough, he senses their arrival—only four, easy pickings for Erik—and their thoughts are so blurred together by now, his awareness is immediately Erik’s. 

He expects Erik to surge into action, to pull back swiftly and get himself to rights. But the Sentinels are distant yet, and there's time enough for Erik to press a kiss against Charles’ jaw, delicate and sweet as a promise.


End file.
